Sherlock Holmes- A Study in Blood

Chapter 14

The little girl wasted no time in scrambling onto her father's lap, tucking her head into his chest.  "Papa," she spoke up with a frown, "you're rattling."

Watson kissed her head.  "I know, dearest."  He could feel and hear the fluid in his lungs.  It was as though finally admitting he was ill had drained him of his strength and made him all the more aware of his symptoms.

"Hush," Irene commanded, "you'll only make your throat worse.  I'm going to go fix you some tea."

Holmes smirked, watching Irene flit about and Mary pat her father's cheek affectionately.  "I dare say, you'll be well in no time with such excellent nurses, Watson."

The doctor smiled softly, pulling Mary in closer toward him.

"I love you, Papa," she said, craning her neck to place a kiss on his cheek.

He smiled into her curls.  "I love you too."

~*~*~

"How is he?" Holmes asked, entering the doctor's room an hour after Mary had fallen asleep on his and Irene's bed.

"He has a fever," she told him as she dabbed at their friend's flushed face.  "It's not very high though.  Hopefully we can keep it that way."

Sherlock Holmes rarely moved so fast as he did when Watson suddenly choked and began coughing.  Crossing the room to Watson's bedside, he slid an arm behind his back and held him upright against his own chest as the fit continued.  Irene held a cloth to his bloodstained lips.  Holmes found himself unable to look at the ruby red substance speckled across the fabric.   Never having been prone to squeamish tendencies, for some reason he was deeply disturbed by seeing Watson so ill.   It was too like what he imagined Irene had endured during her bout with tuberculosis.  And that damn kerchief of hers...

"Holmes," Watson rasped, his gruff voice pulling Holmes from his dark thoughts.  He turned his attention to his friend who was moving out of his arms to rest against the pillows Irene had propped up for him.  "Go," Watson ordered, having seen the far off look in the other man's dark eyes.  "I'll be alright."

"Don't be absurd, Watson," Holmes scoffed, righting himself and doing his best to shove such torturous images to the farthest recesses of his mind.  "I'll do no such thing."

"Sherlock," Irene said in the gentle but firm tone he had grown accustomed to hearing, "go get some rest.  You look tired and I will not have both of you falling ill on Mary and me.  I'll watch over John and come for you if you're needed.  I promise."

With a deep frown, Holmes pondered her words, finally nodding and gripping Watson's hand tightly.  "I'll come back in a few hours."

Watson nodded, giving him a tight smile.  His lungs were screaming for air and the muscles in his chest were spasming ever so slightly as he tried to hold back another fit for the sake of his friend.  The moment Holmes was out of the room, Watson lost his battle, wrapping one arm around his middle as hacking coughs ripped from his throat.  Irene's slender arm wrapped around his back.  "It's alright," she soothed, "you'll be alright, John."

Suddenly quite dizzy, he leaned his head against her shoulder.   She wiped the blood off his lips and the sweat from his brow.  "Just breathe."

Closing his eyes, he did just that, concentrating all his energy on what should have been such a simple task.  Finally, she helped him lay back against the pillows, helping him sip from a glass of water.  "You don't have to stay, you know," he forced passed his irritated throat.

She gave him quite the look.   One he was fairly sure his daughter had picked up on and given him before.  "I think I do."

"Irene, I'm a doctor.   I can care for myself.  You need not feel obligated..."

"Obligated?" she echoed in disbelief.  "Is that what you think?  That I feel obligated to look after you?"

"Well, Sherlock..."

"Is my husband, yes," Irene interrupted, moving from her chair to perch on the side of the bed, "but John, I care for you too.  We may not have always been friends, but I like to think we are on our way to becoming so."

"Yes, I'd like to think so too," he told her honestly.  Then, a smirk pulled at his lips.   "I do apologize if my manner toward you has been less than cordial.   I confess, at first I was a bit wary of you.   It was alarming to meet someone who could hold their own against Sherlock Holmes," he coughed, waving off her assistance.  This time, it was manageable.  "And I could see the power you held over him," he continued, albeit a bit breathlessly.  "I did not want to see him hurt."

"I would never hurt Sherlock."

"I know that now.  I've never seen him so happy as the day he told me the two of you were to marry."

"I have," she said, taking his hand in both hers.  "When he first told me about Mary, and then when he introduced me to her.  His eyes...  They positively sparkled, John."

"He does dote on her," Watson agreed.  He gave her hand a light squeeze.  "He'll make a good father himself one day."

A thoughtful, knowing smile crossed Irene's painted lips.  "Perhaps."

He coughed a bit, his throat positively burning, and he reached for the glass of water with a shaking hand.  "Allow me," Irene insisted, once again helping him drink.  He nodded his thanks, unable to find the strength to summon his voice again, and not all together confident he had much of one left.  "You fever seems to have abated," she hummed, placing a hand to his brow.  "Keep this up Doctor, and you may find yourself all but well come morning."

He grinned at that.  God willing, he would be.  It'd only been a few hours, but already he missed his daughter's company.  He loathed the idea of spending another night without her nearby.

"You know, he cares for you.  A great deal.  He loves me, yes, but you hold a special place in his heart.  One no one else could ever claim.  You must not think less of him for leaving tonight.  We've never discussed it, but I know when he thought me dead, it was for you he continued to fight."  Having been fiddling with a clean cloth, she finally turned her gaze to him.  "If something were to happen to you, John, I don't know that he'd ever recover."

Watson shook his head, struggling to find his voice, and not only because of his illness.  "He'd have you.  He'd be fine."

"But no one can take your place, John," she said, wiping away a tear he hadn't realized he'd shed and pressing a kiss to his forehead.  "He'd be lost without his Boswell."

*~*~*

It was sometime late into the night when Watson awoke to music.  Though Irene was asleep in the chair beside the bed, Holmes stood next to the window.  Violin resting between his chin and shoulder, he swayed slightly as he coaxed a soothing melody from the instrument with a flourish of his bow.  Watson smiled, closing his eyes and allowing himself to be lulled to sleep by the gentle music.